


Biggest Dick in the Business

by Bunnywest



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire (Teen Wolf), EMT Stiles Stilinski, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, It starts out like its dark but I promise its not, M/M, Misunderstandings, Porn Star Peter Hale, References to Misery, Sassy Peter, Snarky Peter, Steter Secret Santa 2019, Stiles Stilinski Is So Done, Werewolf Peter Hale, brief mentions of past underage, like a single sentence, this is utter crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:00:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21877771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bunnywest/pseuds/Bunnywest
Summary: There’s movement in the room next door, and footsteps, and then the door opens and a frankly gorgeous young man bounces into the room. Peter has the fleeting thought that he’s far too pretty to be a hunter. The young man stops at the foot of the bed, hands on hips, and just…stares.  The weight of his gaze is unsettling to say the least.After what feels like hours, the man’s face breaks into a wide smile, and he says, “It’s really you. In my house. Oh my god, you probably hear this all the time, but I’m your number one fan.”And right then is when Peter realizes why this whole thing seems familiar. Because of course. His life is a horror movie now.He’s been kidnapped by a cut-rate version of Annie Wilkes.Or, the one in which Peter is a porn star who wakes up strapped to a strange bed, but it's not what he thinks.
Relationships: (background), Chris Argent/Sheriff Stilinski, Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 118
Kudos: 1214
Collections: Steter Secret Santa 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HakeberHooligan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HakeberHooligan/gifts).



> This was in response to HakeberHooligan's request - "I’m a sucker for tropes, and honestly the cheesier the better. I love sass battles, and when they get on each other’s nerves, but still love each other regardless. The phrase that comes to mind is ‘long suffering’."  
> I hope this hits the mark for at least some of those things!  
> (Also did you know that there is NO TAG for Porn Star Peter Hale? and that is a goddam travesty I tell ya!)

* * *

Peter wakes with his head pounding, and it takes him a second to work out that something’s very, very, wrong. Waking up with a hangover is nothing new. Waking up in a strange bed? Also nothing new. The restraints that hold him so effortlessly when he tries to sit up, though? Cause for concern.

Someone’s undressed him, and for god knows what reason he’s wearing a set a hospital scrubs, one ankle bandaged. It aches in an unfamiliar way, and Peter knows his healing hasn’t kicked in, which is worrying.

The wide band across his waist prevents him from rolling over, and his wrists are clipped to it and held at his sides. He has no chance of moving unless someone releases him, and he can’t see anyone around right now. He takes the opportunity to attempt to break out again, twisting and writhing against his bonds, but it’s useless. These are definitely industrial grade restraints- no fur lining in the cuffs, no lovely blood red leather, nothing that makes this sort of thing fun. This is no ill-planned sex romp.

Whoever this is, they mean business. And somehow they've weakened him enough to keep him trapped. That can’t mean anything good for him.

He tries to focus, to ignore the icy fingers of dread running down his spine as he attempts to work out what’s going on. He has vague memories of the Christmas party he weaseled his way into last night, of plenty of drinks, of the inevitable giggles and blushes when the other guests recognized him and one of them was brave enough to admit it, but he doesn’t remember anyone offering to take him home. At least, he doesn’t remember accepting any offers.

He does recall drinking glass after glass of punch, of feeling dizzy, and of sitting outside on the steps in the snow, though he can’t remember why he thought it was a good idea. Possibly he’d been attempting to strike a tragic pose as he bemoaned his ruined career – he’s been doing a lot of that lately.

Anyway.

The point is, he remembers being outside, and then waking up here with a massive headache and strapped to a bed - and nothing in between.

And this isn’t a normal hangover. Peter should know. (Werewolf or not, if you drink enough fast enough it _is_ possible to get hammered - it just takes some dedication.) No matter how he tugs at the restraints he can’t break free, and his concern threatens to become full-blown panic. He’s weak as a kitten and a whole lot afraid right now. He has an awful, creeping suspicion that someone knows just what he is, and they’ve used that knowledge against him, which can only mean one thing, in Peter’s experience.

Hunters. 

He closes his eyes for a moment and tries to keep the terror at bay long enough to work out how he’s going to get out of this. 

Another surreptitious glance around the room nets him glimpses of discarded lengths of IV tubing, several kidney dishes, and a syringe. None of those things bode well. At least he’s not in an ice bath, so he probably still has both his kidneys, but he’s not sure how long that will be the case.

Peter debates staying quiet, but the need to know what the hell’s going on, to face his enemy, outweighs his ever-increasing dread. He clears his throat and manages to croak out a “Hello?”

There’s movement in the room next door, and footsteps, and then the door open and a frankly gorgeous young man bounces into the room. Peter has the fleeting thought that he’s far too pretty to be a hunter. The young man stops at the foot of the bed, hands on hips, and just…stares. The weight of his gaze is unsettling to say the least.

After what feels like hours, the man’s face breaks into a wide smile, and he says, “It’s really you. In my house. Oh my god, you probably hear this all the time, but I’m your number one fan.”

And right then is when Peter realizes why this whole thing seems familiar. Because of course. His life is a horror movie now.

He’s been kidnapped by a cut-rate version of Annie Wilkes.

* * *

His captor is still talking, moving towards the bed as he does so. “I couldn’t believe it was you, I saw you on the ground and I wasn’t sure but then you opened your eyes and I’ve always been a sucker for your eyes, and okay I know that’s weird given what you’re famous for, did you know that they call you the biggest dick in the business? Of course you do. Anyway, I took you home and now I’m gonna take care of you. I still can’t believe I have The Wolf in my bed!”

The boy stops for breath just long enough for Peter to squeak out, “Please don’t hurt me. Just let me leave.”

The boy’s eyebrows furrow. “Leave? You can’t leave. You’re not well enough. Now, why don’t we get you to take your medicine?” He advances more, and Peter can’t help but whine at the implied threat. He struggles against the restraints, but it’s useless. He swallows, waiting for the syringe full of wolfsbane, but instead his captor produces two small white capsules that are startling in their familiarity.

He squints at them for a second before asking hesitantly “What are those?”

“Tylenol. For your ankle.”

Peter blinks and shakes his head in an effort to clear it. It doesn’t help. None of this makes sense. “Tylenol,” he repeats slowly.

The boy (and really, Peter must stop calling him that, given his height and the breadth of his shoulders) nods. “I didn’t want to give you anything stronger with whatever the hell was in your system last night. You were out of it, man. I think you might have been roofied, because you were off the planet.”

“So what, you just decided to take advantage and kidnap me?” Peter demands, suddenly brave in the face of the decidedly non-lethal medication.

The brows furrow further. “Kidnap? Dude, I literally fished your sorry, injured ass out of a snowdrift when it looked like you were quite happy to just, I dunno, lay there and die or something. How about a little gratitude?”

“You just said I can’t leave,” Peter accuses. “That sounds like a kidnapping to me!”

Pretty boy flails somewhat at that, looking horrified. “Dude, no! You can’t leave because we’re snowed in. Ten inches last night. That’s why I brought you home. You went ass over teakettle down the driveway and couldn’t walk, but the storm was already closing in. I brought you here to fix you up.”

“Why not take me to a hospital?” Peter asks, still suspicious.

At that, Cutie McCreeper shrugs. “I offered. But you were wailing about how you didn’t have insurance.”

That does sound like something he’d say – after all, he can hardly just tell people he doesn’t need medical care. Still, Peter refuses to be mollified just yet. “What about all the medical equipment? It looks like some sort of chop shop in here.”

Stalkerboy runs a hand down the back of his neck and ducks his head. “I’m an EMT. Sometimes things just…make their way home from the job, you know?” He gestures to a tangle of IV tubing. “I use that in my fish tank.”

His panic’s abating, but Peter still makes one last show of tugging at the restraints. “So if I’m not your prisoner, why am I tied down?”

The young man’s eyes widen, and he mutters, “Oh, shit, I forgot. You nearly rolled out of bed a couple of times last night dude, you were thrashing around. It was for your own good.” He darts over to the bed and unclips the restraints, and Peter relaxes slightly.

Still, he doesn’t trust the young man, not quite yet. “What did you give me? Why am I so weak?”

His captor/savior heaves a sigh. “I have no fucking idea what you took, okay? You were wasted when I found you. But you could at least be grateful instead of making me out to be some kind of psycho. You were hurt, and I just wanted to help, that’s all. It’s kind of my job. I mean the fact that you’re, well _, you,_ was a bonus, sure. And it was a good excuse to leave that godawful party. I mean, who the fuck is so pretentious that they float sprigs of mistletoe in the punchbowl anyway?”

Wait.

_“Mistletoe?”_

“Yeah. Trying to be festive or some shit, I guess.”

A wave of understanding washes over Peter, and the tension in his chest eases. “In the punch, you say?” He never actually looked at the bowl, just accepted refills from whoever was walking past him. In hindsight, that was a mistake. He tries to remember how many glasses of punch he had. He lost count after six. Now he thinks about it, that should have been a clue – it normally takes at least a dozen drinks to have an impact.

“Uh huh. Why?’

“I have an allergy of sorts,” Peter says. “I react badly.” It’s not a lie, not exactly.

The young man nods. “I guess that makes sense. The lack of coordination, the dilated pupils, yeah.” He seems to remember himself with a start. “I’m Stiles, by the way.” he extends a hand.

“Pleased to meet you Stiles, I’m Peter.”

Stiles’s face breaks into a delighted grin. “Oh wow, that’s your real name? Is that where your screen name came from? Peter and The Wolf?”

“Right, from that.” It’s as good a reason as any. Peter takes the proffered hand and shakes it absently, thinking. Now that the threat of torture isn’t hanging over his head, Peter finds himself ever so slightly charmed by his host. This could be a solution to his lack of accommodation, temporarily at least. Stiles did say he was a fan, and Peter can work with that. He turns on his most fetching smile. “Now tell me, my very own Florence Nightingale, is there any chance of coffee and something to eat? I don’t do carbs.”

* * *

Peter sighs happily and settles back against the pillows. This is working out wonderfully. Stiles has fed, watered and caffeinated him, and he’s feeling significantly better. He surreptitiously wiggles his bandaged ankle, and there’s not even a twinge. Excellent – his healing’s kicked in. Not that Stiles needs to know that of course. After all, this is a remarkably comfy bed - Peter should know, as someone who spends most of his time in them for a living – and he’d quite like to claim it for his own. Which entails being, well.

Bedridden.

Stiles undoes the bandage, rotates the joint carefully, and his eyebrows raise. “You know, I could swear this was swollen all to hell last night. I thought it might even have been broken, but it seems fine now. Weird.”

Having a healed ankle doesn’t really work for what Peter has planned, so he hisses through his teeth at the touch. “Aah - oooh,” he moans. Faking pain noises isn’t that far off faking sex noises, and god knows he does that successfully enough to make a living at it. “It still hurts,” he insists.

“Huh.” Stiles frowns, but Peter lets out a pitiful whimper and he draws his hand away.

Stiles offers to help him to the shower, and Peter puts on what he hopes is a convincing performance, wincing and groaning when his foot touches the ground. He _is_ an actor after all, even if nobody watches his films for the dialog. Stiles wraps an arm around him and hoists him up further, taking his weight, and Peter is temporarily distracted by the unexpected muscle that’s hiding under Stiles’s flannel shirt. Now that Peter knows he’s not actually a murderous stalker, he allows himself to admire Stiles’s attractive mouth and porcelain-pale skin properly. His wolf wants to mark it.

Perhaps later. For now, he plays up his injury, waits while Stiles produces a shower stool from somewhere and sets him up in the bathroom, offering to stay and help him if he needs it. Peter sighs heavily. “I’m sure I’ll be fine. Just – stay close in case I need you?”

“I’ll be right outside the door,” Stiles promises.

_I’ll just bet you will_ , Peter thinks. He can practically see the stars in the boy’s eyes. Maybe he’ll offer him an autograph later. Or a blowjob.

One of the two, anyway.

* * *

The shower’s not as good as the nice double headed one Peter used to have in his place before he was evicted, but it’s adequate, and he stays in there until the hot water starts to run out. At least there are plenty of towels – one for his hair, one for the rest of him, and one to drape over his shoulders because he’s feeling chilly while he shaves.

After using the razor and shaving foam, he borrows the only toothbrush. Then he pokes about in the cabinets until he finds some deodorant and hair product, helping himself to both. There’s some expensive cologne tucked away at the back, so he uses that as well. He admires himself in the mirror and smiles, satisfied. He looks and feels like himself again. He wraps the last dry towel around his waist and tucks it in, knowing exactly how that makes him look.

If he’s going to take advantage of the situation, he’ll need every weapon in his arsenal. Taking a breath, he schools his expression into something approaching vulnerable in the mirror, leans against the vanity with his sore foot extended, and lets out a weak-sounding, “Stiles?”

The door opens in seconds, just like he thought it would. “Hey, what do you – “ Stiles stops short. His gaze falls on Peter’s half -naked body, but barely lingers there for a second, drawn instead by the pile of wet towels. Stiles looks Peter up and down, takes in the styled hair, the shaved face. “Found everything you need I see?”

Peter pretends not to notice the sarcasm. “Yes thank you, although I do prefer an organic shower gel generally.”

Stiles sniffs the air. “Are you wearing my cologne?” His eyes widen when he spots something. “Did you _actually_ use my toothbrush?”

Peter doesn’t answer, instead extending an arm. “Are you going to help me back to bed or leave me here till I fall down? I’m quite exhausted.”

Stiles looks like he’s about to say something, but then his mouth snaps shut, and he takes Peter’s arm and supports him as he limps back to the bedroom. Peter settles into the bed with a contented sigh, ignoring Stiles for the moment. Stiles watches him, hands on hips, mouth pressed in a thin line. Finally, he blurts out, “Hey dude, using my toothbrush? Not cool. I mean, who knows what the hell’s been in your mouth?”

Peter raises an eyebrow and smirks. “Oh, I think we _both_ know what’s been in my mouth.”

Stiles flushes bright red. “That’s kinda my point, dude.”

Peter raises his brows higher. “I see how it is. You judge me for the art I make, but you’re happy to consume it.”

“ _Art?_ You don’t make art, you make – “ Stiles stops short, flustered, and runs a hand through his hair. “Just - don’t use my toothbrush, okay?”

“Fine. I’ll just hop out of bed and run down to the local store for a new one, shall I? On my injured ankle. _In the snow._ ” Peter folds his arms across his chest and watches Stiles deflate.

He can’t believe he ever thought this boy was a threat.

* * *

Peter regards the sandwich in front of him for a moment, then slides it away. “I thought I said no carbs.”

Stiles juts his chin out and shoves the plate back. “And I said snowed in. This is what there is.”

Peter sighs from the depth of his soul, even though he’s internally skipping with glee, because it must be years since he had a good old fashioned bacon sandwich, but here one is, right in front of him, the aroma of melted butter and bacon grease making his mouth water. Carbs don’t actually have any effect on him, but he has to tell people _something_ when they ask how he keeps in such excellent shape, and unfortunately that means he has to be seen not to eat the damn things, no matter how delicious they are.

“I suppose it’ll have to do.” He takes a bite and has to hold back a moan – the edges of the bacon are perfectly crispy, the bread soft and warm. It’s heavenly. He takes another bite, then another, devouring the whole thing. As he chews the last bite, a truly filthy sound does escape him, and it’s matched by a whine from Stiles. Peter looks up to see him watching, mouth hanging slightly open.

Peter reaches across to where Stiles is sitting on the edge of the bed and uses a fingertip under the jaw to close his mouth. ”You’ll catch flies,” he says softly, and Stiles startles and goes red, swallowing rapidly.

Peter takes advantage of the moment to steal the sandwich off Stiles’s plate.

* * *

“I’m telling you, it absolutely throbs.”

“I don’t understand how you’re still in pain. It’s been two days. There’s no swelling, it should be getting better.” Stiles runs a thumb over the joint, and Peter thrills at his touch. The boy really does have lovely hands.

That’s not whats important right now, though. “Are you calling me a liar?”

Stiles twists his ankle this way and that. “I’m saying maybe you have an extremely low pain threshold. Like, toddler- level.”

Peter huffs indignantly. “Please. Given my profession you really think that? You’ve seen my work.”

Stiles looks at him consideringly. “Hmm. Yep. And you’re always one holding the riding crop. Maybe you’re not as tough as you make out. Maybe you’re a delicate flower.”

Peter bristles. He’s not delicate - it’s just that as a werewolf it would raise too many questions if he didn’t stay marked from one scene to the next. He can hardly tell Stiles that, though. He settles for, “I just have preferences, that’s all.”

Stiles pats his ankle absently. “So you _are_ a delicate flower.”

“Shut up and bandage me up already. And then bring me lunch. Are there any of those nice little chocolate covered cherries left?”

“The cherries you somehow struggled out of bed to find? The ones that were meant to be a Christmas present for my stepdad? The ones you ate most of already? Shockingly, no. And what happened to no carbs?”

“I’m sick. The rules don’t apply.” Peter pouts. “I can’t believe you finished those. I was saving them for later.”

Stiles exhales loudly, and the hand on Peter’s foot tightens, just for a moment. “Let’s get you bandaged, shall we?” he grits out.

“And then lunch,” Peter reminds him. Stiles doesn’t answer, just tugs roughly on the end of the bandages as he rewraps Peter’s ankle. “You have a terrible bedside manner, just so you know. Very unprofessional.”

Stiles drops his foot unceremoniously onto the bed. “Oh, I’m sorry, do I not meet your high standards? Maybe you can just hop out of bed and run down to the local hospital to get yourself a new carer. On your injured ankle. _In the snow.”_ And with that he stalks out the room, leaving Peter staring at his back.

Rude.

* * *

There’s another cold front overnight, and it dumps four inches more of snow.

Stiles looks distinctly glum as he peers out the window, telling Peter it looks like they’ll be here for another day at least, since Beacon Hills isn’t equipped for snowfall.

Peter internally rejoices, then moans repeatedly about being bored until Stiles wheels the TV into the bedroom.

* * *

“I’m not getting you a bell.”

“But how will you hear me if I need you?”

“I’m sure you’ll bitch loudly enough.”

He doesn’t get his bell.

* * *

“What happened to the bacon sandwiches?” Peter pokes listlessly at the boiled eggs Stiles presents him with.

The action’s greeted with an eyeroll and a frustrated huff. “Bacon’s gone. Now shut up and eat your breakfast.”

“But there are no soldiers. You can’t have boiled eggs without toastie soldiers,” Peter whines.

“Yeah well, stiff shit. Bread’s gone too. Snowed in, remember? Stop being such a whiny man-baby.”

Peter bristles at the accurate assessment. “Well, you’re the one who dragged me here against my will. The least you could do is put some effort into taking care of me!”

Stiles’s eyes grow wide with disbelief and he throws his hands in the air. “Put some effort – are you for fucking _real_ right now? You’re in my house, being a pain in my ass, whining when I don’t wait on you hand and foot, sleeping in my bed, stealing my toiletries, _using my toothbrush,_ and you’re still not happy?” He snatches the plate holding Peter’s breakfast and storms away, pausing at the door just long enough to say, “You know, when they said you were the biggest dick in the business, I didn’t know they meant your personality!” and then he stalks out and slams the door, leaving Peter staring after him, mouth open.

He hears the clatter of dishes being slammed in the kitchen, and frowns.

He really wanted those eggs.

* * *

Stiles doesn’t reappear for the rest of the morning, leaving Peter alone with his thoughts and his empty stomach. Perhaps, he reflects, he did go too far. Now Stiles is upset with him, and Peter finds he’s unhappy at the thought, which is unexpected – other people’s feelings aren’t normally something he concerns himself with.

He’ll have to make it up Stiles somehow.

He sighs and climbs out of bed, limping over to the door and opening it. He finds Stiles in the kitchen doing something involving grated cheese and muttering under his breath. “Stiles?”

“What?” Stiles doesn’t turn, just grates with increased vigor.

Peter puts a hand on his shoulder, feels it tense under his touch. “I wanted to apologize.” To his surprise, he finds he means it. “I’ve been behaving like a spoiled child.”

Stiles shrugs him off, saying, “S’fine,” in a tone that suggests it’s not fine, far from it

Peter casts about for something to make this right. In the end, he goes with what he knows. “Would you feel better if I offered to blow you?”

Stiles stiffens but doesn’t pull away, just lets out a strangled, “What?”

Peter steps closer, puts his mouth close to Stiles’s ear. “I said, I could blow you. I’d make it good,” he croons. “I’ve had years of practice. What do you say?”

Stiles slumps, his head dropping down, so his chin hits his chest. Peter takes it as a good sign and keeps going. “It’s a classic scenario after all – two attractive men snowed in together, no way to pass the time, all that sexual tension…” He snakes a hand around Stiles’s belly and slides it up his shirt, letting his palm rest on surprisingly firm abs.

Stiles jerks away from his touch and spins so they’re facing, letting out something that’s part laugh, part groan. “Jesus. Teenage me dreamt about this, you know that? About you, The Wolf, seducing me because you couldn’t resist my ethereal charm.”

“Well, you are very charming. What do you say, Stiles? Shall we take to the bed, entertain ourselves for the afternoon?” Peter puts a hand on Stiles’s belt, only to find a hand on top of his, stilling it.

“Yeah, I’m gonna pass.”

Peter can’t believe what he’s hearing. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said no.” Stiles gives a wry smile. “Don’t take it personally. I’d hop right on that in a hot minute, except for two things.”

“Oh?”

“Yep. One, you’re injured. Two, I don’t have condoms. And no offence, but given your history…”

“I’m clean!” Peter snaps, offended on behalf of his co-stars. He’s always clean, perks of being a werewolf, but he resents the implication anyway.

Stiles raises his hands in a conciliatory fashion. “Woah, calm down. It’s not you – it’s partly because of my job, okay? And apart from that, it’s been drilled into me since I had my first awkward sex talk with my dad. First it was _you don’t want to get a girl pregnant, Stiles_ , and then later, once my dad figured out that wasn’t gonna happen, it was _stay safe, Stiles, wrap it before you tap it_.”

Peter snorts at hearing the old phrase, and Stiles grins at him. The tension between them eases, and Peter shuffles over to the kitchen table and plops himself down in a chair, careful to favor his injured foot. He watches Stiles grate and chop and stir, making what looks like a quiche for lunch. It’s a _baconless_ quiche, but still. He appreciates the effort.

Stiles shoos him back off to bed, tells him he’ll bring a tray when it’s ready. He doesn’t snap when he says it, and Peter hopes that means his attempt at an apology worked. Purely for selfish purposes, of course. He plans to stay once the snow’s cleared. He just needs to get Stiles on board. It occurs to him that he might have to actually _be nice._

He hopes he remembers how.

* * *

Over lunch, Peter attempts to engage in conversation that doesn’t revolve around himself. It’s surprisingly difficult at first, but Stiles blossoms under the attention, and Peter finds it easier and easier just to listen. Which is good, because once he gets going, Stiles can _talk._

He tells Peter about how his initial plans to be a cop like his dad fell through when he turned out to be terrible with a firearm, about ending up in the EMT training course through a series of coincidences, about how it was meant to be a stopgap, except he loved it. “I’ve settled into life in here, I guess.” He casts a curious glance at Peter. “What are you doing in Beacon Hills anyway? I thought you lived in LA?”

“I have family in the area. Came home for a holiday visit.”

Stiles’s eyes widen. “Oh my god, will they be freaking out? Please tell me you let them know you were okay? What’s the name, I’ll look them up and -“

Peter raises a hand to soothe him. “It’s fine. It was a surprise visit, they aren’t expecting me.”

Stiles calms down a little, and Peter neatly skirts around the issue of his name – Beacon Hills isn’t _that_ big of a town, and he did promise his sister he’d never embarrass her with his profession after that one time. (What? Is it his fault she doesn’t have parental lock and her son was a curious teenager?)

They finish their meal, and Stiles keeps glancing at him, biting his lip. Peter takes pity on the boy. “Just ask, Stiles.”

_“Howthehelldidyouendupinporn?_ ” Stiles blurts out, cheeks red.

Honestly, if Peter had a dollar for every time he’s been asked that, he’d - well, truthfully he’d have about twenty-five dollars, which is slightly more than his current net worth.

Normally he’d throw out some glib line about doing what you love, but for whatever reason, he decides, just for once, to be honest. “I’m pretty, and I’m good in bed, and I have certain…assets that people will play handsomely for. I met a man at a party, and he told me I was made for this, offered me a contract. And it was this or college, and this seemed like it would be more fun.”

“And was it?” Stiles asks, eyes wide.

Peter grins. “It really, really was.”

* * *

The next afternoon, Stiles examines Peter’s ankle and gives a satisfied nod. “I’m gonna say you’re better. There’s no bruising or swelling, and it has full range of motion. The snow should be melted by the morning, and then you’re free to leave.” His hand lingers, thumb rubbing small circles on Peter’s calf. Peter doesn’t even think Stiles is aware of it.

Peter inwardly curses his healing abilities. It sounds like Stiles is expecting him to leave tomorrow, and that doesn’t work for him _at all._ He thought he’d have more time. He briefly considers trying to aggravate the injury again, but that sounds like a lot of effort and unnecessary pain. Peter simply doesn’t have the patience for that. He decides that he needs to speed up his plans for seduction. Sure, Stiles didn’t take him seriously yesterday, but that just means Peter will have to try harder.

“Have I told you what a wonderful bedside manner you have?” he purrs.

“You literally told me the opposite.” Stiles’s hand keeps moving over Peter’s calf, one hand curling round to massage the muscles.

“I was just in too much pain to appreciate it, that’s all. Your patients must swoon.” He dials the sincerity up to eleven. “I know we got off to a rough start, but I like you, Stiles.” He lets syrup drip into his tones, raises an eyebrow in a way he knows from years of experience can’t be interpreted as anything but seductive.

Stiles’s head whips up like a startled rabbit. “You – you like me?”

“More than like you. You’re such a pretty young thing. If I was filming and you were my co-star, I’d be a very happy man.”

Stiles ducks his head, and Peter could swear he’s blushing. “As if. I mean, I’ve seen your co-stars.”

“Yes, you have, haven’t you?” Peter leans forward and lays a hand over Stiles’s. “But believe me when I say, there’s something alluring about you. A certain awkwardness, an innocent beauty. It makes me want you, want to take you apart.” He slowly pulls his hand back, letting his fingers trail delicately over Stiles’s wrist, smiling to himself when Stiles swallows convulsively and snatches his hand away from Peter’s leg.

“Th-thanks?” he stammers out, blushing and grinning. “Coming from you, that’s a hell of a compliment.”

“And I mean every word, sweet boy.” Peter pats the bed next to him and tilts his head in invitation. “I’ll confess, I’ve been dying to see what’s hiding under that flannel. And now I’m recovered…” He stretches his arms over his head, arching his spine, and then beckons Stiles over with a lazy crook of his finger. “You want?” He spreads his arms wide.

Stiles though, doesn’t move. He stays sitting at the foot of the bed, fingers tangling together nervously. “I told you, we don’t have any- “

“And we won’t need any, for what I have planned. I just want to peel you out of that shirt and get my mouth on that pretty skin, maybe let you play with Baby Wolf up close and personal.” Peter makes deliberate use of the nickname his fans have for his massive cock, and it has the desired effect. Stiles inches closer.

Peter reaches down and drags the tee shirt he’d borrowed over his head, slow and sensual, just like he’s done a thousand times before, except this time there’s no camera. There’s just Stiles, with his rapid heartrate and open mouth. “Uh...”

Peter leans back against the headboard, legs spread wide. He smirks, filthy and inviting. “Come sit here with me sweetheart, and I’ll make all those teenage dreams come true.”

There’s a moment when the invitation hangs in the air, and Peter thinks he’s pushed too far. But then Stiles launches himself forward, and there’s a flurry of lips and teeth colliding, and hands in Peter’s hair tugging his head this way and that as Stiles straddles his lap and absolutely _devours_ him.

Peter can work with that.

“Wasn’t gonna do this,” Stiles mutters, “told myself I wasn’t gonna cave just because it’s _you,_ not when you’ve been such a pain in the ass,” he stops talking long enough to lick and bite down Peter’s neck, “but fuck, you’re even hotter in person, and when will I ever get this chance again?”

Peter lets out a throaty laugh and lifts and moves Stiles slightly, arranging his long legs so they fit together better, and then he gets back to kissing Stiles, properly this time. He takes control, slows everything down, uses what he knows to make it good. Peter slips his tongue into Stiles’s open mouth, tilting his head slightly, and Stiles responds with a soft moan when Peter slides a hand under the hem of Stiles’s shirt and splays a hand across his back.

“Your turn,” Peter murmurs when their lips part, tugging at the hem of Stiles’s shirt. Stiles pulls back just enough to pull the shirt off and Peter’s gratified to see that as he suspected, Stiles is all lean muscle and pale perfection. He skates his fingertips down Stiles’s ribs. “So pretty for me, sweetheart.”

Stiles shivers under his touch, and his hands start to explore Peter’s chest, cupping his pecs, thumbing at his nipples as he whispers, ”Not as pretty as you.”

Peter’s had plenty of people sing his praises, wax lyrical over his muscles, his face, his cock, and they’ve used much fancier words. But this is raw admiration, honest and unscripted, and somehow that makes it special. “I’m glad you approve, sweet boy.” He lets his hips give a tiny upward thrust, makes Stiles aware of the bulge there. “Shall we get comfortable?”

“If by comfortable you mean naked, then fuck yes.” Stiles has kicked off his shoes and is shucking out of his jeans before Peter’s had a chance to blink, and he chuckles at the boy’s enthusiasm. But then Stiles straightens and Peter sees him naked for the first time, and the laugh dies in his throat as he stares.

Stiles is gorgeous, there’s no other word for it. Long lines and soft skin, a flushed and heavy cock that just begs for a mouth on it, rosy nipples peaked from the cool air. Peter can’t tear his gaze away.

He must stare for too long, because Stiles’s shoulders hunch and he covers himself. “I know it’s not what you’re used to,” he says quietly.

Peter voice catches and he has to clear his throat. “No, it’s not,” he rasps out, suddenly overwhelmed with a gut-wrenching wave of desire, and how long has it been since he felt something like that? Years, probably. He catches the way Stiles stiffens and hastens to add. “I’m used to waxed and shaved and primped and fluffed, sweetheart. None of it real. You though? You’re perfect, just like this.” Peter shimmies down the bed, raises his hips to slip out of his sweats, casts them aside, still staring. “Now are you going to stand there all day teasing, or are you going to get over here?”

Stiles grins, obviously relieved, and when he slots himself next to Peter on the bed it’s as if they were made to fit together. It doesn’t hurt that Peter’s an expert at wrangling limbs, but it’s more than that. He finds himself shifting to accommodate Stiles, making sure he’s comfortable. He doesn’t have to worry about how it will look on camera, and that’s oddly freeing.

It means when Stiles ends up sprawled over top of him, kissing and grinding, Peter can just close his eyes and enjoy the sensation of velvet-soft skin and hard dick rubbing against his own erection. Stiles pulls back long enough to say, ”Helloooooo, Baby Wolf,” with a wicked grin, and then his hand’s snaking between their bodies and his long fingers are wrapping around Peter’s cock. "Fuck, it's so much bigger in person," Stiles breathes out, and Peter can't help but feel smug for a moment, but then Stiles starts to move his hand and every single thought flies out of his head.

Peter melts into the touch, lets his head fall back. “Such lovely hands, sweetheart.” Stiles strokes him agonizingly slowly, teasing, and Peter lets him. There’s no money in filming hand jobs, and his hook-ups normally expect something more, so it’s been a long time since someone did this for him. He honestly forgot how good it could feel.

Stiles leans down and buries his face in the crook of Peter’s neck in an unknowing parody of werewolf scenting, and Peter has to take a moment to just breathe, will himself not to flash gold eyes and flip them over and _take._ Instead he lets out a long, low groan, and he doesn’t miss the way it makes Stiles’s cock throb where it’s pressed against him. He works his own hand between them and wraps it around Stiles’s dick, feels the wet mess of precome that he’s leaking. He smears it around for an easier slide, and starts to work him expertly.

Stiles is mumbling, _“oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck,”_ under his breath. Peter can relate, hips moving of their own accord and setting a rhythm as he ruts into Stiles’s touch. There’s no top shelf lube, Stiles has a callus on his palm, and the whole thing’s rough and raw and dirty and absolutely perfect. It barely takes any time before Peter feels his orgasm threatening, and he pants out, “Stiles, please!” not even sure what he’s begging for.

“Uh huh,” Stiles grunts. He runs a thumb over the head of Peter’s cock, spreading the slickness there, adjusts his grip, and starts stroking in earnest. Peter whines, fucking into Stiles’s fist desperately, and he’s blindsided when Stiles gives a tiny twist that hits all his nerve endings _just right,_ pushing him over the edge with no warning.

He doesn’t howl when he comes, but it’s close.

Stiles chuckles against his neck. “You like that?” and Peter wonders when, exactly, he went from being the seducer and became the seducee. He’d be embarrassed about coming so fast, but it felt too good.

Stiles is still fucking into Peter’s hand steadily, making little breathy sounds with each thrust. Peter’s wolf nudges at him, and he’s hit with an overwhelming need to bring the boy pleasure. It’s not enough just to touch - Peter needs to taste him. It’s the work of a moment to flip them so Stiles is on his back. “Can I blow you?” Peter means for it to come out seductive, but he sounds desperate, even to his own ears.

Stiles only hesitates for a second before muttering, “Fuck it, yeah,” and nodding. Peter doesn’t waste any time. He swallows Stiles down in one easy movement, taking a second to thrill in the strangled whine it draws from the boy. This always was one of his favorite things - his wolf loves the primal nature of it, taste and scent and want all rolled into one. He deepthroats Stiles effortlessly, uses every trick he knows to make it unforgettable, and is rewarded when Stiles grabs at his hair and starts thrusting, letting out aborted little whimpers with every rock of his hips.

It doesn’t take long before Stiles stills and shudders under him, and Peter’s senses are flooded with the taste of fresh come as it spurts across his tongue.

He swallows, because how could he not?

Stiles’s cock twitches in his mouth as aftershocks run through him, and then he’s tugging at Peter’s hair, pulling his mouth away. Peter draws off slowly, gently, and glances up to see Stiles watching him through half closed eyes, looking fuck-drunk and relaxed with a stupid smile on his face.

Peter doesn’t doubt he looks the same.

Stiles lets out a soft giggle, and sighs out, “Fuck.”

Peter can’t help himself. “Well I did offer, but someone has no condoms.”

Stiles snorts. “You’re such an asshole. Why does anyone put up with you?”

Peter crawls up the bed, props himself up next to Stiles on his elbow. “My good looks and massive dick, mainly.”

Stiles flaps a hand in his direction, and it slaps against Peter’s chest and slides away. “Sounds right.” He leaves a smear of come behind like a snail trail, and Peter wrinkles his nose. He opens his mouth to suggest a shower, but Stiles’s eyes are fluttering closed, and he looks so peaceful sprawled out on the bed that Peter’s loathe to disturb him. He waits until Stile’s breathing is steady and deep, and then slides carefully out of bed and into the shower, keeping it short for once.

He only takes one towel.

* * *

When Peter comes back into the bedroom Stiles is still passed out, and it occurs to Peter then that Stiles probably hasn’t been sleeping that well, since he’s been using the fold-out couch while Peter hogged the bed. He hasn’t thought too much about it before now, and he feels slightly guilty. He gets a warm cloth and wipes the drying come off Stiles’s hand, as if that will make up for his selfishness, and then wraps himself around the sleeping body.

Stiles surfaces just enough to nestle back against him as Peter pulls the coverlet over them, and then immediately goes back to sleep. It’s not long before sleep pulls at the edges of Peter’s consciousness as well, and he lets himself drift off, confident that even if his seduction didn’t go exactly as planned, it was still a success.

* * *

When Peter wakes, Stiles is still out cold. A glance at the clock tells him he’s been asleep for an hour or so, and he stretches lazily and contemplates trying to persuade Stiles to go for a second round. He doesn’t think it would take much. But it’s only a passing thought – he’s hungry, and that takes precedence right now.

He doesn’t wake Stiles, instead slipping on his sweats and padding barefoot out to the kitchen. When he pokes around in the fridge there’s not much there - some leftover quiche, far too many eggs for a single man to ever possess, and an assortment of sad looking root vegetables. Peter frowns, and eats a slice of quiche. It takes longer than it probably should for it to occur to him that he could make something for a change.

He eyes the bendy carrots, and wilted celery, and finds a head of garlic nestled in the back of the vegetable crisper. The freezer yields a package of chicken, and Peter nods to himself. Soup it is.

Contrary to what Stiles probably thinks, Peter is actually capable of taking care of himself, when he wants to. And he finds he does want to – looks forwards to surprising Stiles with a hot meal when he finally wakes. (He’ll admit that there’s a tiny part of him that swells with pride at having made Stiles come so hard he practically passed out.)

There’s butter, so he sautés the diced vegetables with garlic and herbs, then adds water and some powdered stock and leaves it on a rolling boil till it has some flavor, before adding the diced chicken and turning it down to simmer. Peter always could make a mean chicken soup.

It’s as it’s bubbling away gently in the background and he’s cleaning up the kitchen that there’s the crunch of tires on gravel. Peter’s head snaps up, and he walks over and looks out the window to find a police cruiser there.

For just a moment his guilty conscience rears and he thinks fleetingly of the incident that cost him his job, wonders if it’s come back to bite him on the ass, before dismissing the idea. Stiles did say his dad was a cop – he’s probably just checking on his son.

Still, the sharp rap of knuckles on the door makes him jump. A quick look in the bedroom reveals Stiles is still passed out, and Peter considers briefly not answering. The knock comes again, accompanied by a call of, “Kid? You in there?” It’s a familiar voice, one that draws a sharp breath from Peter, and he rips the door open to be confronted by Chris Argent in full uniform, sheriff’s badge gleaming on his chest.

“Argent, “he growls out. He knows there’s gold bleeding into his eyes, doesn’t care. “How did you find me?”

“Find you? I wasn’t looking for you. What the fuck are you doing in my kid’s house?” Chris steps inside, jostling Peter backwards, one hand on the butt of his gun.

“ _Your_ kid?” As far as Peter knows, Chris only has a daughter.

“Kid, stepkid, same thing. Why are you here, half naked, wandering around like you own the place? Where’s Stiles? If you’ve hurt him, I swear…”

“I’m a werewolf, not an axe murderer,” Peter snaps, shoving back at Chris. Fucking hunters and their assumptions.

“Wait, _werewolf?”_ Stiles bursts out of the bedroom and in three angry strides he’s the one cornering Peter, poking him in the chest and crowding him against the wall. He has bed hair and is only wearing boxers, yet he still manages to be positively terrifying. “Oh my god, I can’t believe I didn’t see it! I _knew_ that ankle was broken! And you, you lying asshole, you told me you were still hurt! _Oh I’m in pain, feed me, pamper me, entertain me, Stiles._ I busted my ass and put up with your bullshit and it was all an act!”

Chris snorts. “Well what else do you expect? Hale’s always been a self-serving little shit.”

Stiles stares for a moment before throwing his hands in the air. “You’re a damned Hale? As in, the rich as fuck Hales who own half the town? As in, scary as fuck Talia Hale? Anything else I should know? You’re a wizard, maybe? Fuck me.” He runs a hand through his hair and breathes heavily through his nose, and in that moment, he resembles nothing so much as a bull about to charge.

Peter’s backed against a wall, Stiles in front of him, Chris off to one side with one hand on his hip and the other on his gun, the pair of them boxing him in. He has a brief flash of sympathy for the rabbits he chases during a full moon. He swallows, and gets out a weak, “You know about wolves?”

Stiles nods. “Chris used to be a hunter. He clued me in when he and Dad got together. But I already knew - the people in this town are terrible at keeping secrets.”

Peter looks from one unimpressed face to the other, and slumps. “Fine. I was injured, but it healed as soon as the mistletoe was out of my system. But you’re the one who brought me home in a snowstorm, it’s hardly my fault I was stuck here. And I had to pretend, or you would have been suspicious.”

“And the sweet words, the taking me to bed? Was any of that true, or were you just angling to stay longer and take advantage?” There’s hurt in those big brown eyes.

And that, that stings. Even if its partially true. Peter’s conscious of Chris hissing out, “Jesus, Stiles,” under his breath and running a hand down his face, but he doesn’t let it distract him, aware that whatever he says next could be the difference between walking away unscathed and digging a wolfsbane bullet out of whatever body part Chris decides to aim at.

He extends a hand and clasps it gently around Stiles’ wrist. “That – it wasn’t an act. I really do find you attractive, and we both had a good time, didn’t we?”

Chris’s muffled, _“oh, for fucks, sake,”_ goes unremarked.

Stiles is staring at his face, searching for something, Peter doesn’t know what. “Stiles,” he tries, unsure, pleading. “I couldn’t tell you what I was, surely you see that. But the attraction? That’s genuine.”

Whatever Stiles is looking for, he must find it, because his expression softens. “I’m not thrilled at you being a lying bastard, but I guess I can see why you did it. But no more lies, okay?”

“No more,” Peter agrees.

Stiles lifts his head then, distracted. He inhales, nostrils flaring. “What’s that smell?”

It takes Peter a second. “Soup. I made soup.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows. “You cooked?”

“You were still asleep after –“ He glances at Chris and settles for, “ - after. I was hungry, and I didn’t want to wake you.”

Stiles’s face does something complicated at that, and he lowers his hand so he’s no longer poking Peter’s ribcage. “That’s…actually kinda nice.”

“Yes, well. It occurred to me that the couch probably wasn’t doing you any favors, so I let you sleep.”

Stiles gets a small smile on his face, and his head ducks. “Thanks. I was pretty tired.”

Chris raises a hand. “Okay, we’re gonna need to back up here. Stiles? How the hell did you drag home a porn star, and why were you sleeping on the couch?”

“How did you know he’s a porn –“ Chris raises an eyebrow, his lips twisting in a wry grin. Stiles’s mouth snaps shuts and he blushes scarlet. Peter would laugh, if it wasn’t for the hand still on that gun.

Instead he offers, ”I was accidentally poisoned with mistletoe and took a fall, broke my ankle. It didn’t heal. Stiles took me home to get me out of the storm and then we got snowed in. That’s all.”

Chris fixes Peter with a hard stare. “That’s all, huh? You didn’t take advantage of my boy sexually?”

“Absolutely not. I don’t do that. Anything that happened was consensual.” Peter holds Chris’s gaze, on more solid ground now.

“Oh god, Otherdad, stop,” Stiles moans, holding his hands in front of his face and curling in on himself. The tips of his ears blaze red. “Just, no. I’m a grown man. We’re not discussing this.”

“A grown man who didn’t call and let us know you’re okay. ‘s why I stopped by. Been trying to get hold of you for days,” Chris huffs.

“You know the phone service goes to shit in the snow,” Stiles points out.

“Try telling your dad that. He worries.”

“Lemme guess, the old man twitched the whole time, threatened to put on snow chains and drive over in spite of his fucked-up knee and you had to sit on him to stop him?”

Chris’s lips quirk up in a grin. “Yup. Nobody worries more than a retired sheriff.” It’s said with affection, though, and Peter concedes that maybe Argent’s not completely terrible.

Stiles snorts. “And I’m guessing he sent you with supplies as well, because I might be starving?”

Chris’s grin widens. “In the trunk.” Stiles goes to walk outside but Chris stills him with a hand to his chest. “It’s freezing, and you’re in your damn underwear.” He nods towards the door. “Come on, _Wolf._ Make yourself useful.” Stiles flushes at the use of Peter’s screen name, and Peter catches the wink Chris tips him.

No, not completely terrible.

* * *

They unload the groceries, enough for a month at least, and Stiles and Peter get dressed. By then the soup’s reached the perfect level of done. Peter raids the new supplies and adds some heavy cream, turning the whole thing into a silky-smooth creamy delight, and commandeers a loaf of sourdough to go with it. “You staying for dinner, Otherdad?” Stiles asks.

Chris settles into a kitchen chair, legs spread wide and hand finally off that damn gun. “Sure. Smells pretty good.”

Stiles fishes out three bowls while Peter slices the bread, and they settle in. Any tension that was lingering in the air dissipates when Chris takes a bite and groans out, _“_ Oh fuck me.”

“Sorry, I’m taken,” Peter quips.

Chris stares for a second, mouth hanging open, and then the silence is broken by Stiles cackling. “Got a smart mouth on you, huh,” Chris mutters, and that just has Stiles laughing harder. It takes a second before Chris’s brain catches up to his mouth, but when he realizes what he said, he snorts in spite of himself.

_“Smart mouth,”_ Stiles repeats, still snickering.

“Shut up kid, or I’ll tell your daddy what you’ve been doing on your snow day,” Chris threatens.

Stiles sucks in a deep breath and manages to stop laughing long enough to take a bite of his own soup. His eyes widen, and he lets out a filthy noise of his own. “Fuck me,” he echoes, eyes fluttering closed.

Peter has to bite back the automatic reply of “Anytime, sweetheart,” because Chris is sitting _right there,_ and he doesn’t want to shatter their fragile truce.

He does sneak one hand under the table and rest it on Stiles’s thigh, though.

The rest of the meal mainly passes in silence and soft moans of appreciation, and its only as they’re finishing up that Chris asks, “So, how come you’re back in town?”

Peter keeps his tone casual. “I had some time off. Thought I’d visit family.”

“You hate your family, and they hate you. Why are you really here?” Dammit, thinks Peter.

Stiles looks far too interested in this conversation, elbows propped on the table as he follows the exchange. Peter has an immediate overwhelming urge to lie, gloss over the events that led to him being here. He could make up some excuse, scam a ride back to LA, try and use his connections to salvage his reputation.

But sitting across from Stiles, remembering how nice it had been to indulge himself with no thought of stamina or camera angles or ratings, the truth hits him. He doesn’t think he wants his old life, not anymore.

Peter’s _tired._

Tired of keeping up a facade, tired of waxing and grooming, tired of LA. And Beacon Hills, for all he couldn’t wait to leave, has something that calls to him.

He could stay here.

He could get to know Stiles better, see if this could be something.

He could _retire._

The idea appeals more than it should, if he’s honest. And he already knows that honest is what he’ll need to be, if he wants a chance at this. “I’m here because there was an incident, shall we say, that resulted in me being persona non grata in LA. I won’t be working in the foreseeable future.”

He’d hoped that would be enough, but he’s reminded that he’s dealing with a cop and a cop’s kid when he’s met with identical stony faces. “What, exactly did you do, Hale?” And there’s that hand on the damn gun again.

“I’d rather not go into detail,” he tries.

Chris shakes his head, then pushes his chair away from the table, unclips his gun, takes off his badge, and slaps them both on the table. “I don’t give a shit whether you want to go into detail or not. I need to know you’re not gonna cause trouble in my town. So consider me off duty, and spill.”

Peter’s not fooled. Chris cares plenty, and Peter would put money on him having a taser stashed somewhere, because old habits die hard. Still. He did promise Stiles though- no more lies.

”It was a misunderstanding, more than anything.”

Which it was. Nobody told him that the pretty little twink waiting on his knees in his dressing room wasn’t part of the cast.

Nobody told him the kid was three weeks shy of his eighteenth birthday.

And nobody told him it was the director’s nephew.

He explains it haltingly, how he’d been caught with his dick still wet by the director in question, who’d screamed that the kid was here to make _coffee,_ he was only seventeen damn it, what did Peter think he was doing, and he’d been summarily escorted from the set and told not to return under threat of…well to be honest, he can’t quite remember.

And then he’d gone on a self-pity fuelled bender that resulted in disappearing for three weeks and not paying his rent, and it turned out his landlady had had an encounter of the born-again kind and was just looking for an excuse to oust her sin-riddled tenant, so there he’d been, homeless and jobless, and then his bank accounts had been unexpectedly empty, and suddenly home had looked mighty appealing. Talia might be horrified by his career choices and annoyed by Peter’s existence in general, but she wouldn’t leave him homeless.

Probably.

Peter had rolled into town and been recognized by some young guy, (Jackson? Jason?) who’d insisted Peter come to his Christmas party. The offer of free food and drink and the chance to relax before facing his sister’s inevitable lecture had been too good to turn down.

Who knew the guy would put mistletoe in the fucking punch?

* * *

Peter’s words trail off, and he examines his nails as he waits for the hammer to fall, for Stiles to screech in disgust, for Chris to order him out of town.

Instead, a low chuckle comes from Chris, one that soon morphs into a full belly laugh. He raises his head to see Chris grinning and shaking his head in disbelief. “You are _such_ a dumbfuck.”

Stiles is also grinning from ear to ear. “Getting head from the director’s underage nephew I can almost understand. But how the hell were you stupid enough to get _caught?”_

“Right?” Chris chimes in. “Never heard of locking a door?”

“It wasn’t planned,” Peter protests. “When you think about it, I was an innocent victim.”

Chris snorts. “What - you slipped, and your dick fell in his mouth? Don’t push it, Hale.”

Which, fair. Still, they don’t have to laugh quite so hard.

* * *

Once they’ve finished mocking him about the inglorious end to his career, Chris goes to stand. “So, you want me to drop you at your sisters?”

Peter guesses he’d best accept the offer, much as he’d prefer to stay here. “I suppose.” He turns to Stiles. “Maybe I could call you sometime, sweetheart? We could…catch up,” he says delicately, aware of Chris’s presence.

Stiles bites his lip, before putting a hand on Chris’s shoulder. “Wait. Chris, you said his family hates him. It’s not fair to send him there. And he’s homeless otherwise.” Stiles gives Chris some kind of look, Chris gives him one back, and Peter has no idea what it means, any of it, but they obviously do, holding a silent conversation with vague looks and hand gestures.

Finally, Stiles tilts his head and makes pleading eyes, and Chris sighs. “For the record, this is a bad idea and I’m against it.”

Stiles breaks into a grin and Peter thinks to himself that gods, that boy really is attractive. Peter gets so caught up in watching his expressive face, the tilt of his nose, the plush lips, that he only half catches what Chris says next.

“ –and I’m not the one telling your father. It’s the chickens all over again.”

“Chickens?”

Chris gives an eyeroll worthy of any Hale. “You happen to notice how many eggs were in the fridge?”

“…a lot?” He wonders how that’s relevant.

“It’s because Stiles can’t say no to a lame duck. Chicken. Whatever.”

“That was one time! And who else was gonna feed them?”

Chris ignores him. “Stiles went to a callout, took a woman to hospital.” Peter nods, lost. “But she had chickens, and she lived alone. She had no one. He spent the next _month_ while she was in hospital feeding and watering them every single day, and cleaning out the coop on weekends. When she was released, she was so grateful she started dropping off eggs by the tray, and Stiles is too soft to tell her that no single man eats four dozen eggs a week.”

“I don’t want to hurt her feelings,” Stiles protests.

“That’s how he ended up with the fish tank as well. Someone at work was gonna flush ’em, so Stiles put his hand up and took ‘em in.”

“They’re pretty! There’s nothing wrong with having fish!”

“Don’t even with me, kid. That tank cost you a fortune.” Chris nods at the top-of-the-line aquarium in the corner. “And we won’t even mention the rescue kitten that you only rehomed because you turned out to be allergic.”

Stiles lets out a tiny sigh. “So I’m nice. Sue me.”

“But - what does this have to do with me?” Peter interrupts. There’s a tiny flutter of hope in his chest right now, and he hopes he’s guessed right.

“You’re the lame duck. Or wolf, in this case. Kid’s gonna offer to put you up.” Chris’s expression is resigned. “And you’ll probably accept, because your sister’s a giant pain in the ass and you don’t have any other options. But hear this. Take advantage, and you’ll find out all the ways I can hurt you. And between me and his father, nobody will ever find the body.”

Peter doesn’t doubt for a second that he means it.

And then Chris leaves, and it’s just the two of them, standing awkwardly. Peter takes a step towards Stiles. “You…want me to stay?” He doesn’t deserve it, he knows that. But it doesn’t mean he won’t grab the opportunity with both hands.

“Just for now,” Stiles clarifies. “And you’d have to make yourself useful.”

“I could do that.” Peter advances closer, until their faces are inches apart. “I do have a very particular set of skills.”

It’s Stiles who leans in and kisses him, before murmuring, ”I’ve heard.”

Peter wraps his hands around Stiles’s waist and hoists him up, and Stiles clings to him as Peter carries him towards the bedroom. “Why don’t I show you?”

Stiles nods, any reply lost in the flurry of soft kisses they share, and they only part when Peter settles on the edge of the bed with Stiles in his lap. Stiles kisses up the side of Peter’s neck, and whispers, “So I’m guessing werewolves don’t need condoms?”

“Werewolves don’t need condoms,” Peter confirms with a wicked smile.

Stiles pushes at Peter so he’s flat on his back and sprawls across him, propping himself up on his elbows and grinning down. “In that case, come on then Wolf. Show me what you’re famous for.”

* * *

Its later, as they’re laying loose-limbed and well-fucked, that Stiles says, “So, you’re taken, huh?”

It takes Peter a moment to place the conversation, but then he nods. “I met a charming young man. I mistook him for a psychopath at first, but I was quite wrong. It turns out he’s a sucker for a lame duck – or rather, a lame wolf.”

“Hmmm. Interesting. Because I met a man who I thought was a total jerk at first. Hot like sin, but a real pain in the ass.”

“And?” Peter prompts.

“Oh, I was right, he’s a giant pain. But I still kinda like him.” Stiles rolls over and kisses the scowl off Peter’s face. “If you’re staying, I want my bed back.”

Peter nods lazily. “I’m willing to share.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cover Art by the marvellous MsRidcully as a Christmas gift!!


	2. Chapter 2

“How exactly are you broke, though? I don’t understand,” Stiles says as he shovels scrambled eggs onto two plates. There's a distinct hitch in his step, and Peter can't help but feel smug. He smirks as he recalls the fun they had last night, the way Stiles had whimpered and moaned. It's so much sweeter when the sounds are real, he's discovered.

Still. It's awfully early to be discussing this. “Sweetheart, I’m blacklisted. I can’t work. No work, no income.”

Stiles’s brow furrows. “No but, don’t you still get royalties and stuff? I don’t know how this all works, but it seems like you should have some money coming in.”

Peter takes a bite of his breakfast before answering, taking the time to admire Stiles in his freshly ironed dark blue uniform, eyes lingering on the way the fabric clings to Stiles’s biceps. Peter's the one who ironed it. In the past six weeks he’s become quite adept at household tasks, spurred on by Stiles’s pleased smiles whenever he makes himself useful. Besides, now he’s decided to retire, he has to do something to fill his days.

“All I know is my card kept getting rejected, so the account must be empty. Who knows how much I spent during those three weeks? ” He shrugs. Money comes in, money goes out, and Deucalion, his business manager, takes care of the rest. It’s not something Peter’s ever had to worry about, not since his first film, _Fill Bill_ , broke all records and launched him headfirst into adult film industry stardom.

“Did you get online, check the balance? Is the card damaged? Did you call the bank?”

Peter scowls. “What, so they can tell me I’m overdrawn and owe them money? No thank you.”

Stiles shakes his head. “You are _such_ a child.”

“It’s been a very traumatic month!” But Peter takes in the determined set of Stiles’s jaw and sighs. He knows that look. “You’re going to make me deal with this, aren’t you?”

Stiles holds out his hand. “Show me the card.” And there it is, the edge of authority that comes from working with people in crisis mode. Peter finds it far more arousing than he should. He fishes in his wallet and hands the card over without even questioning it.

Stiles takes the card, turning it over in his hands and peering at it. When he looks up, his expression’s halfway between fond and exasperated. He holds it up for Peter to see. “It’s expired, dumbass.”

He taps a finger against the date, and he’s right. EXP 11/19

Peter stares. “But they normally send out a new one - “

Stiles rolls his eyes. “What, to the address you no longer live at?”

Peter’s mouth opens and closes in a stellar imitation of the occupants of Stiles’s fish tank, while Stiles just grins. “Call the bank, Peter.”

Peter sits there, slightly shellshocked at the possibility he’s not actually broke after all. “I should,” he says faintly. He should probably call Deuc as well – he knows the man went to Spain for Christmas, but he should be back by now.

A thought strikes him. “Are you trying to sort my finances so I’ll move out?”

It was only supposed to be temporary he knows, but he’s gotten quite settled, grown fond of his rescuer. He’d thought Stiles was happy with their arrangement too, if his enthusiasm in the bedroom and the way he wraps himself around Peter like an octopus at night is anything to go by. It stings to think that he might have been looking for a way to get Peter out the door all this time. A sourness twists in his belly at the idea of it.

Stiles though, looks distinctly offended. “Not everyone has an ulterior motive, asshole. I’d be happy if you never left.” His mouth snaps shut, and he looks as surprised as Peter feels, as if he hadn’t meant for that to come out. “I mean, you can leave if you want,” he backtracks, “I don’t want to keep you here against your will.”

The tightness that had been gathering in Peter’s gut eases, and he leans over the table and draws Stiles into a long, slow kiss. When they part, he cups Stiles’s face with one hand, smiling softly. “Sweetheart, you couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.”

* * *

(It turns out Peter is not broke. Peter is a million miles from broke. At Stiles's request, he stays anyway.)

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [MrsRidcully](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsRidcully/pseuds/MrsRidcully) is responsible for this wonderful DVD cover art from Peter's breakthrough film. You should all fawn over her.


End file.
